You Can Stick Your Oxford Comma Up Your Ass!
by Joe Buonfiglio
Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?
You bet your ass! Most of those wankers were pricks to me back in the day, anyway; even the ones I liked! So yeah, fuck ’em!
Okay, that’s not entirely true. There are actually quite a few ghosts along my timeline for whom I think of fondly with a content sigh whenever memories of auld lang syne pop into my grey matter. However, unlike those people from days gone by who still can warm my heart with the mere mention of their names on New Year’s Eve, the thought of contriving yet more New Year’s resolutions to which I shall — knowingly and with forethought — never adhere is the real reason I drink so much on this beloved holiday.
I don’t drink to celebrate.
I don’t drink to honor.
I don’t even drink to remember.
I drink to forget … those dreaded, those hated New Year’s resolutions.
No, I’m not going to lose weight. The new gym membership was a waste of money, not to mention a whole thirty-six minutes of my life before I bolted — well, crawled — out the back door. Stair-treadmill combo my corpulent ass, you skinny bitch! I’m The Biggest Loser and I don’t mean that in a good way. Accept it. Move on with life.
No, I will not be a kinder person next year. I can’t even be kind to myself; I sure as fuck ain’t gonna be nicer to others.
No, I’m not going to get organized. I’m a paper-stacking hoarder son of a bitch and that’s that. If you want a Playboy from 1984, I’m your man. If you want to be able to get your hands on it within the next two years, however, you’re shit out of luck.
Quit smoking? Let me light up this big, fat Cuban and think about that one. And when his screaming ceases, I’ll spark up this cheap cigar and tell you to stick the “quit smoking” resolution up your prodigious posterior.
As far as any writer’s resolution to use the Oxford comma, fuck me, fuck you and fuck off!
With that said, here is my latest batch of New Year’s resolutions in which I truly believe I at least have the proverbial snowball’s chance in Hell of keeping….
THIS YEAR… I will not walk into the middle of the public library, drop my pants and yell, “Torpedo away, Mister Boodles!”
At least not while going commando.
THIS YEAR… I will not crash children’s birthday parties claiming to be “Tinkles the Clown” and tell them that I once had anal sex with Ayn Rand during the story time segment of my act. (I’ll save it for the balloon-animals portion.)
THIS YEAR… I will endeavor to bear in mind that public urination in the middle of a crowded movie theater during a blockbuster film is not appreciated by the attending audience as a theatrical enhancement. (It is acceptable during arthouse indie films and their associate previews, however.)
THIS YEAR… I will rigorously train in order to be able to fart the alphabet — the ENTIRE alphabet — or at least make it past “Q” without sharting.
THIS YEAR… I resolve to stop having— to have far less— to somewhat cut back on publicly fondling the genitalia of monkeys or penguins or any other creatures made available for your viewing pleasure at our nation’s delightful zoos.
And my final resolution as we go into the calendar reset…
THIS YEAR… I shall accept as part of my new religion that some people — some people — just need killin’… or at least some really rapier sarcasm. And then, of course, I will apply for my National Rifle Association membership and official church tax exemption on the same day. Watch the joy as it then comes flooding in; just comes flooding in.
Well, that’s it. Time to break open the Irish whiskey and watch the ball drop.
No, seriously. I’m way too old to still have an undescended testicle. Bet hey, New Year is a time of hope and promise, no?
© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio All Rights Reserved.